Rhythms of acceptance

"Wake up, Mr. Shadowmore," the coachman called out.

The young man slowly opened his eyes. Rising not too quickly, he stretched, dazzled by the bright light of the midday sun. Surrounded by the bustling hum of the living city, Gurzhik asked the coachman, "Where are we?"

"We're in Rondon, sir," the coachman replied, adjusting his hat.

Rondon — a bastion, the oldest stronghold of light, visible even in the darkest depths. For centuries, it had fulfilled its main task — keeping even the smallest shred of darkness out of its lands.

The city's architecture was eclectic — tall cathedrals with stained glass windows intertwined with graceful spires and arches dating back to the Darius era. Cobbled streets wound through the mazes of bustling markets, where merchants tried to sell their goods at exorbitant prices, loudly proclaiming their uniqueness, and luxurious mansions, the sight of which you couldn't tear your eyes away from.

The city was permeated with the aroma of soft, yet crispy bread just taken out of the oven. Yes, there had never been any problems with food in the city. Almost all the inhabitants were engaged in some business that contributed to the prosperity of the radiant city, whose residents woke up every morning without fear of the day ahead.

But now, not everything was smooth in Rondon — new rule in the form of Eldrick II, whose father had been a good ruler: under him, unemployment in Rondon had been one of the lowest for centuries, casting a shadow over the sunlit streets of the city. Crime was on the rise, and the citizens didn't venture out of their homes at night, and the new laws were harsh. But, although Rondon had dimmed, its former greatness had not disappeared.

The Shadowmore family found their haven in a modest yet cozy two-story house located in a quiet area away from the bustling markets, close to the city center. Not bad for minor nobility. The spacious stone mansion, adorned with well-kept gardens, whose iron majestic gates proudly served their duty. The façade was adorned with elegant columns with intricate carvings. Upon entering the foyer, guests would be greeted by a soaring ceiling adorned with ancient frescoes, while the marble staircase gracefully ascended upwards.

Gurzhik's personal chambers were framed by windows with luxurious silk draperies. The bed, where the youth spent cozy evenings reading books, was strewn with silk pillows, whose softness was akin to the warmth of a mother's touch. And the writing desk of redwood, where strange notes still languished in the dust, awaited its time.

Next to the Shadowmore family was the Thornwood family, with whom they had been bound by bonds of friendship for many years. This family owned the largest farm, the meat from which they sold at the market. Their meat was even served at royal feasts, let alone by the common folk.

"We've arrived, sir," the coachman said, stopping the carriage at the iron gates.

Gurzhik silently took his belongings and, stepping out of the carriage, said, "Thank you. The journey was indeed smooth."

The coachman silently drove off in his direction.

"Here I am, home," the young man said with a touch of sadness, taking a deep breath.

Gurzhik headed towards the iron gates. He walked reluctantly, as if returning from a hunt empty-handed to a starving family. His body gave off a barely noticeable tremor. A growing anxiety gnawed at the bottom of his stomach, as if someone kept plucking a troubled string on a guitar. Beads of sweat even appeared on his forehead.

With a heavy heart, he pushed open the gates and shuffled along the path towards the main entrance. Each step was difficult for him, as if he were carrying an unbearable burden for his size. When he reached the entrance, Gurzhik paused for a moment. He asked himself, "Why do I feel so reluctant to enter my own home? Why are my hands shaking?" After taking another breath, he entered. Only silence and the pleasant smell of home, unmistakable, greeted the youth. In the distance, the faint crackling of the fireplace could be heard. Gurzhik's heavy footsteps echoed in the spacious foyer. His heart pounded with anticipation. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows—undoubtedly, it was his father. His stern face, illuminated by the light of the fireplace, fixed its gaze on the youth.

"Welcome home, son," his father said with a cold voice. He wore a custom-made velvet doublet, the dark blue fabric of which was adorned with intricate embroidery, and the high ruff collar framed his face, giving it formality. "I hope this time you haven't disappointed me."

He was still trembling, and at the sight of his father, his excitement only intensified. Swallowing hard, Gurzhik replied timidly, "I'm sorry, Father. I failed."

A tense silence filled the room, interrupted only occasionally by the crackling of the fireplace.

"Failed?!" his father said menacingly with his deep voice. "After all I've invested in you… After everything I've given you…"

"Father, please listen…"

"What? Tried your best but didn't succeed?.. Heard it all before…" his father interrupted. "I had high hopes for you, son. But… I have no words." His father lowered his eyes and sighed deeply with sadness, adding, "What will you do about it?" and collapsed into the nearby chair.

Gurzhik swallowed hard: his father's words pierced like a knife through the heart.

"I know," he muttered, looking at his father's sad face. "Forgive me, Father. I always wanted to be the pride of our family. I tried my best to fulfill my dream, but... It's not meant for me to become who you want me to be... But I will still strive relentlessly towards my goal, I will try until I collapse." Only then did his father say, "I'm proud of you, son."

After those words, his father's expression softened slightly. He loved his son, but didn't always show it; he only wished the best for his son. But he couldn't help being strict, as Gurzhik was the sole heir of their family.

"I know..." his father sighed heavily, casting a weary glance at his son.

"Enough," came the gentle voice of his mother from the kitchen. "Dinner is ready."

Reluctantly, Gurzhik made his way towards the kitchen. Upon entering, he saw an elegant woman before him, dressed in a white dress sewn from the finest silk, gracefully draped over her slender figure. Her chestnut locks were pulled back and secured with a pearl comb. And her kind face, radiating warmth, looked towards the exit in anticipation of her son.

"You must be hungry. Sit down, have some food, dear," his mother said warmly.

Gurzhik nodded graciously and settled into the chair at the table while his mother leisurely set the food on the table. Taking a deep breath of the aroma of the prepared dish, he began to eat. As they ate, the youth shared what was weighing on his mind, how deeply he was troubled.

"Thank you, Mom, for listening," Gurzhik said softly.

His mother simply smiled back, "You're welcome, dear. Remember, your father and I love you."

"Thank you," the youth said with tears in his eyes.

The meal, nearing its end, was interrupted by his father, who leisurely entered the kitchen and said, "Son, I've been thinking... Maybe it's time for you to find another path."

Gurzhik looked up at his father in surprise and asked, "What do you mean, Father?"

"I mean," his father replied, "that I have a friend who runs a tavern in the city. He needs a reliable assistant, and I think you'd be perfect for the job."

The young man's heart fluttered again, as if coming back to life. He replied, "Of course, Father. Anything, Father. I will work hard."

"Of course, you will," his father said with a slight smile. "I believe in you."

"Thank you! Thank you, Father!" Gurzhik exclaimed, hastily making his way to the exit. He then headed to the tavern.